I love writing. I love the thinking that goes into it and how the story unfolds as I'm writing it. I love the idea of creating tiny windows into a fictional character's life.
I love the cosmology and philosophy that underpins what I write and how it has evolved over time.
I love the act of writing itself, the ceremony behind it.
But who is it for? When I die, it will all die with me, having served no one but me.
Is that enough?
"Do it for yourself. Write for yourself."
Do I even deserve it?
Depression and PTSD tell me I do not.
"I have better things to do than waste time on garbage that helps nobody but me.
"Help someone who matters."
But I can't write for them.
J. R. DePriest :verified_trans: :donor: :Moopsy: :EA DATA. SF:
npub1u9…qppue
2025-06-16 23:27:32 UTC
in reply to nevent1q…dstq
Author Public Key
npub1u92r73gw66qu89dzt3j8l5u8c6h89wex997cyq9lrsgrgtl54s4q2qppueSeen on
wss://relay.momostr.pinkPublished at
2025-06-16 23:27:32 UTCEvent JSON
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